They're on the floor in her dorm room, leaning back against the bed, shoulders touching, lit only by the streetlights outside. "You have to really, really, really promise not to tell anyone."

Sometimes he can't believe how young she is. "I've already promised six times, Zoey, but I'd be happy to promise a seventh time if that will make you more comfortable."

"Charlie!" She punches his thigh.

"Are you failing math?"

"I'm being serious!"

They're the same age, he reminds himself. He tries to imagine Zoey busting her ass to pay the rent every month. He tries to imagine her at the morgue at midnight, rain sheeting down, cordon of silent cops escorting her to make the identification.

He tries to imagine himself making conversation with the Queen of England. Okay, Zoey's young in some ways.

"You can't ever tell my dad."

Her dad. His boss. Leader of the free world. "You know I can't keep secrets from the President."

Charlie looks down at his hands, bony wrists sticking out below his cuffs. He tugs his sleeve down. $26.99, a lot to spend on just one shirt when you have to buy a bunch of new stuff all at once. It was only after a couple of weeks of feeling weird that he realized that none of the senior staff or assistants wear plaid shirts. It'd been right there next to the plain-colored shirts in Penney's.

"It's Dad's secret. He already knows."

"Then you shouldn't tell me." He wonders whether someone ever told Josh Lyman and Sam Seaborn not to buy plaid shirts. Maybe it's the sort of thing your father tells you. Maybe they teach it in college. Maybe it's something you're supposed to just know.

"Charlie!" She sounds close to tears. "I just want you to know. You're with him all the time -- I'm just worried."

"What is it? What's wrong?" He puts his hand on her arm. Remembers the weight of President Bartlet's hand on his shoulder, firm and yet somehow uplifting. Confidence-building. He tries to convey some of that in his touch.

"He's got M.S. He's had it for years."

"M.S..." Like Montel Williams. No. "What are you talking about, Zoey? He gets examined by Navy doctors every three months. C.J. Cregg releases his health reports to the press." Suddenly, Charlie's angry. He snatches his hand back. "Do you have any idea how many reporters have nothing to do but dig up stuff about your father? How could this be a secret? Who knows?"

Now she's really crying. "I don't know. I don't know who knows. We never talk about it."

He wonders whether someone ever told Josh Lyman and Sam Seaborn when it's okay to lie to every single person in America. Maybe it's the sort of thing your father tells you. Maybe they teach it in college. Maybe it's something you're supposed to just know.